


Just Another Boy Meets Girl Thing

by cerise



Category: Lost RPF (Real-Person Fic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-30
Updated: 2006-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerise/pseuds/cerise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronicle of how two semi-neurotic but earnest actors might've accidentally fallen in love, despite themselves.  The title says it all. Set in the first season, before y'all-know-what happened. Humor/ romance/ a little smut/ fluff. Heavy on the Somerhalder. Heh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Boy Meets Girl Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/gifts).



The first one Ian meets is Josh. They audition together, which he thinks is a little strange because they'd told him Boone has a sister, and why aren't they having him read with her?

They read a scene that never makes it on the air. Josh's voice is low and nasal and oddly reassuring. He calls Ian "kid" and "GQ" and "Freddy" and a bunch of other colorful nicknames right off the bat.

Normally Ian would already be thinking this guy was a total asshole, but something about the way Josh throws his head back every time he laughs feels really familiar.

  
+

  
The second one he meets is Jorge, whose size is experientially alien and maybe a little shocking to Ian. But he resolves to purge himself of any frivolous, leftover prejudice, because Jorge has a mouth fouler than anybody, and that's always endearing.

The producers have a little meeting to blow sunshine up his ass (he doesn't mind, it's better than the alternative). Ian can only smile and say "thank you." He passes Jorge on the way out, who grins and speaks to him for the first time: "See you in Hawaii, bitch!"

It takes Ian a moment to smile back.

  
+

  
He's always said differently, but lately he's started to accept that he has a thing for blondes. On occasion he'll attempt to rationalize this, something about how light colors reflect light, while dark colors absorb it. But he knows there's no rational explanation for the way he does a double, then a triple take at Emilie, who's nothing short of angelic.

Unfortunately, their initial conversation reveals that 1) she has an adorable Australian accent; 2) she has an American boyfriend; and 3) she has zero in the way of conversational skills. Then he remembers "angelic" sometimes translates into "vacant."

Well, then.

  
+

There's a never-ending assembly line of them – Matthew sounds almost sheepish when he tells Ian, "Everybody calls me Foxy." Ian never again calls him anything else.

Harold is all business; Malcolm's precocious. Of course.

Evangeline giggles and goes barefoot and spends a lot of time being annoyed by her hair whipping her face. Ian would've never guessed Yunjin has a biting sense of humor, but she does. Terry refers to everyone by their first name constantly. It's never "You know..." but always "You know, Ian..."

Dominic doesn't make sense a lot of the time, but whatever.

Still no "sister" _anywhere_.

  
+

Ian wakes up two hours early the first day of shooting, before sunrise. He goes jogging on the beach, tries to shake his nerves and is successful in that endeavor, for the most part.

On set, he's sent to the make-up trailer, and when he steps in, he sees a blonde with a luminous tan and legs that go on for miles sitting at the center of everyone's attention. She brightens when she sees him.

"Are you Ian?" He nods.

"I'm Maggie. I – um..." Instant realization and – oh, _great_.

The hottest girl there, and he'd _never_ get a love scene with her. Just his luck, he thinks, and tries not to be cranky for the rest of the day.

They don't have much to do that first day, anyway, so Ian spends most of it under an umbrella trying, and failing, not to get sunburned. Sometime around noon, Maggie asks him, eyes wide, if he'd like to grab lunch. He wouldn't; his appetite gets shot to hell whenever he gets stressed, but it's not like he's gonna say that.

So he agrees, and murmurs "after you" when he opens the door for her. She blushes a little, grins, like he's being chivalrous, and so she really doesn't need to know he just wants to get another glimpse of her amazing ass in that tiny pink miniskirt.

  
+

They move to the island, all on a permanent basis in some form or another in July, and immediately Ian decides he loves Foxy's house. It's always filled with kids, Foxy's and other people's, because Foxy's wife makes friends with all the neighbors right away.

Ian spends a lot of time there, consuming alcohol, occasionally buying dinner, watching the occasional Disney cartoon with the kids and with Maggie who is glued to his side now and spends a lot of her time with her feet up and her head in his lap, and he never complains. She smells like flowers, like jasmine, she tells him when he asks, and she blushes as she says it. He finds the combination of the scent and the blushing an aesthetically pleasing combination, and brings it up intermittently to reproduce the effect. It always works.

Foxy, like everyone else, thinks they're fucking – Ian even gets a little lecture - but they're all wrong, and frankly, _Ian hates that_.

  
+

By August, they have all started fractioning into cliques. Dom sticks to people who find him extraordinarily charming, like Evie and Emilie and sometimes Jorge. Naveen is like fucking Switzerland, but only due to profound apathy. Foxy is ever the diplomat. Whatever.

Ian does not think Dom is extraordinarily charming. Ian thinks Dom is too chatty and maybe a little off-putting, and Maggie has no interest in anything to do with him, either, so they're all good.

  
+

In September, Josh and Yessica take him and Maggie and Jorge out to a Honolulu nightclub, and Ian goes home with a Hawaiian girl with a broad smile and an eager body.

Very, very nice.

  
+

"Man, I can't take you anywhere," Josh says the next day over a beer and some lunch. Ian just cocks an eyebrow at him and keeps stabbing at his salad.

"I mean," Josh drawls, "You goin' home with that girl."

"Mmmph. Very hot," Ian agrees appreciatively.

"Don't matter. It's dumb to play games like that, son."

Ian has no idea what he's talking about, and he hopes it shows and stays silent.

"Just sayin' –" Josh leans forward, almost conspiratorial – "Keep that shit up, your girl's gonna get pissed."

Ian pauses mid-chew, and shrugs. "What girl?"

He ignores Josh's disbelieving stare.

+

Foxy's wife always puts the kids to bed early and tries to hang with them all, but she's just kind of too normal for that, so it's always just them getting more and more plastered on the private beach out back. Ian would camp out there permanently if Foxy would let him, because it's peaceful, and he feels really free and absolutely no wanderlust at all, which is new for him and not unpleasant.

The moment when clothes start coming off and talk gets permanently raunchy are Harold and Dan's cues to excuse themselves and go home to their wives and families with _Not my thing, man_ and _You guys are crazy, see you tomorrow!_ It never really hurts the flow of conversation except that Michael tells really funny stories about having worked on _Oz_ (a gig Ian would have never, ever, ever considered in a million years, no matter how much money they had offered him) about how it really was kind of like being in a prison because so few women ever showed up on set. Then Josh invariably points out that it's like that here, like they're really stranded on a deserted island, because it's not like any of them have hung out with anyone but each other since, like, May.

Familiarity breeds rapidly, and they all soon discover that Foxy runs around naked whenever possible. He encourages everyone else to do so, too; he's like an evangelist for nudism. Ian plays along because he was a model for ten years and he doesn't care who sees him in his underwear, and Josh, well, Josh and Yessica are crazy and are always up for anything, so wandering into the ocean barely clothed or not at all becomes a regular ritual. Something at the back of Ian's mind always niggles at him, that it's not wise to go swimming in the ocean at night, but by the time he realizes he should worry, he's always too wasted to care.

Yunjin never does it, only tips back her beers and snickers and stays behind, making sly comments to Maggie behind her cupped hand. Maggie stares a lot at first – Ian makes a concerted effort not to catch her eye, because, you know, he's not going to want to come off as _eager_ , for fuck's sake. But eventually, much to Yunjin's amusement, Maggie's clothes come off too and she runs into the ocean with the rest of them. Only slightly above waist-high, and only down to her underwear, but that's good enough for Ian.

That shit's see-through when it's wet anyway.

A few nights later, the waves are calm enough, and, more importantly, Ian is sober enough to feel less than suicidal wading out chest-high into the water. Maggie follows him and is drunk enough to be dared into taking her bra off. She waves it around over her head like some kind of flag, and it takes all of Ian's will power not to try to catch a glimpse of something extra in the moonlight. Sadly, she puts it back on before wading back to shallow, like the good girl that she is, and sticks her tongue out at Josh and Yessica snickering at her in the distance.

  
+

For Halloween they all go out to a private dinner party instead. Ian can't keep his hands off his on-screen sister anymore, and she just accepts that he's touchy-feely in general and never complains. Ian gets so fucking trashed that night that he can hardly see straight; Josh ends up squinty and swooning, and Maggie laughs and laughs at everything everyone says.

Ian gets especially affectionate when inebriated, so he pulls Maggie into his lap and she settles there, still giggling. Terry cocks an eyebrow at them, that by-now infamous mysterious smile toying at his lips, but says nothing behind his beer mug. Yessica grabs Ian's camera and snaps a picture despite Josh's loud protests next to them, and Ian later [sends it in to his web site's gallery](http://www.iansomerhalder.net./Lost/halloween.htm). It's a funny picture.

The night wanes and a Radiohead song comes on over the speakers, and he and Maggie exclaim, "Great song!" and catch each other's eye and smile. Maggie teases him about _jinx!_ and rushes on about how she thinks Radiohead is _the greatest_ band of their generation, and that's when Ian really starts to worry that he might be in love.

  
+

Maggie has family to go home to for Thanksgiving, of course, which is a nice thing about her. She's, like, normal, and has a normal family that misses her when she's not there - not really like Ian, who on some days thinks his parents are his best friends, and other, more cynical days, tries to pinpoint exactly when they became such strangers to him. He stays on the island instead, and his brother visits, which is nice because they get to do the few things they have in common, like snorkeling. It's not much, but it's something.

Dom and stays too – he's British, after all, and doesn't give three fucks about Thanksgiving. He extends curt invitations to Ian to join him for this and that, and sometimes, only sometimes, Ian pretends he doesn't know Dom's just being polite, and accepts and tags along. He never brings up Maggie and Dom never brings up Evie, and that's fine by him.

He doesn't want to be one of those kinds of assholes that turns every conversation around to be about himself or anything, but when Elijah and Billy come to visit for Thanksgiving and everyone acts like the two of them and Dom are, like, _rock stars_ or something, he waits until he feels drunk enough to blurt out, "I made it to the final cut for a role in _Lord of the Rings_ , y'know." Elijah is delighted, slaps his own knee and grabs Ian's lighter to light up his own cigarette before asking what Ian thought of the guy who finally did get the part.

Ian answers truthfully, that he didn't sit through the whole first movie and hasn't gotten around to seeing the other two, and that he can't remember what the character's name was anyway, and Dom's expression – well, Dom never initiates a conversation with him again.

+

In early December, Ian gets around to asking Maggie, "So what do you want for Christmas?"

"Me? You're gonna get me something for Christmas?" It comes out something like a sigh.

"Why not? You already got me something."

Instantly her mouth drops open, her eyes wide as saucers. "You bastard! Did you look through my closet?"

He shrugs and gives her a beatific smile. "Lucky guess." And dodges the fortune cookie she lodges at his head.

"Seriously, you must want something. And don't tell me _nothing_ ," he adds quickly, "Because then I'm just going to get, like, whatever, like, an egregiously large gift certificate to the Sharper Image or something. So you may as well tell me so I don't waste my money on something you'll hate."

"Eminently logical as always, Mr. Somerhalder," she says, feigning haughtiness, then softens. "Ummm. I like clothes."

He quirks an eyebrow. "This, I know."

She grins, sheepish and blushing, her eyes sparkling with a sudden rash of boldness. "Hmmm. I want a kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve."

He doesn't look up from his plate or break his rhythm, just deadpans, "They sell _that_ at the Sharper Image?"

She laughs. "You can get me a gift certificate. To wherever. Seriously."

  
+

When he sees the script for his episode, he has to read it over a few times to stop panicking and actually believe what he's reading is real. Then he decides that he is, in fact, the luckiest son of a bitch alive. Then he decides to bike it over to Maggie's and wake her up – she's always up later than he is.

She answers the door, bedhead still evident, and dressed in the tiniest shorts and camisole, at which he steadfastly avoids staring. Instead, he shoves the script, folded back to the scene in question, and mutters something about whether or not she wants to talk about this.

She reads, expression neutral, but her eyes dart back up to the top of the page over and over.

And all she has to say is: "Are you serious?"

He doesn't answer, just stands in her doorway and waits for her to finish reading and re-reading. She forces a grin and says, "Weird. I guess everyone on the Internet was right."

"Yeah. So... you're okay with it?" He will absolutely _not_ suggest that they "practice" the love scene beforehand.

"Uhhh, yeah... I guess," she says, eyes still glued to the paper. "I mean. It's weird. But it doesn't have to be _weird_.... Right?"

Right.

A week later he just decides to look at it as a job, like the time he had to make out with old and married Mary Steenburgen for two straight days, but the first few times he leans in to kiss Maggie, she giggles at the last possible moment, then apologizes, and they have to try it again. After the second time, Ian whispers, "Just go for it. Pretend it's not me. Pretend it's someone you really, really want to make out with." And it almost, almost comes out sincere.

Somehow it works, though, because then he closes his eyes, and the next thing he knows, someone is yelling "Cut!" and sounding dismayed. He knows he's flushed, but it's dark enough, so maybe no one's really noticed. He blinks to clear the haze and sees the director gesturing at them and saying something about "tone it wayyyyy down." She still hasn't looked at him, but a few more tries, and it's almost like old hat.

Almost.

Seven hours later, and he thinks they're finally done. His mouth feels raw and his skin feels tight all over, and he and Maggie don't look each other in the eye as the director dismisses everyone. He starts heading out, deciding he's got a date with a very long shower in his near future. But just as he's getting into his SUV, a production assistant calls him back for "one more take," which ends up being Maggie shoving a mouthful of _onions and minced fucking garlic_ into his mouth then laughing hysterically as he gags violently and spits. Funny, maybe – sure, okay, yes, funny - and he does manage a shaky, stiff grin after he's wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but, uh, you know, all thoughts of New Year's Eve are temporarily suspended.

+

  
Ian knows himself well enough to know that he can hold grudges for years. He's not really mad about the garlic and onions, though the sensory memory itself still makes him shudder a little, but he's not about to pass up an excellent opportunity for payback.

Naveen decides he doesn't feel like cooking the next time they have a new episode to watch, so he takes everybody out to dinner at a most excellent local steakhouse instead. Ian slides into a booth next to Maggie, outer thigh pressed against hers, and eats his meal against the backdrop of the usual aimless but pleasant conversation.

Then. Dessert. New York style cheesecake (except that he lived in New York long enough to know there's no such thing) and when Maggie isn't paying attention, he grabs a fistful of the cheesecake and smashes it into her face. He shouts, "Payback, Maggie, _payback_!" over her indignant shrieks, but they're both smiling by the time he's done.

She's still giggling madly when she starts scraping cheesecake off her cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, then licking it clean with a _too good to let it go to waste._ It's slow and oblivious and Ian cannot fathom how anyone that whip-smart could be so naive as to not know what the sight of that could do to a man. Ian doesn't think anyone sees him staring, sidelong, until he catches Josh's gaze, who just flashes him a knowing grin and shakes his head.

  
+

The first rule of dressing up for New Year's Eve is to not look like you tried too hard. There's nothing more unattractive than the faint aroma of desperation on New Year's Eve, so Ian double checks that his appearance is appropriately nonchalant in the full length mirror before he takes off to Foxy's house, where he plans to ring in 2005 nice and shit-faced.

He doesn't expect her to be there, but she is; she arrives late and all the exposed expanses of her golden skin are swathed in body glitter. When he's less than sober, he rubs her shoulder with one finger and checks the pad to see if it rubs off onto his own skin, and is secretly pleased that it does.

He wonders when, exactly, he started thinking about her all the damn time.

  
+

Malcolm's there, and so are Dan's kids and Harold's daughter, so Ian tries to act less than stupid even though he's so drunk he doesn't really think he can peel himself off this particular couch. Chair? Ottoman? Yes, couch.

He's more than half way to dozing off when Maggie shimmers into his field of vision and plops herself across his lap with a great sigh. "Iannnn," she sing songs, and punches him in the ribs. Despite that, he manages a weak smile at her. "Maggieeee," he returns, for lack of anything more interesting, and for some reason that sends her into peals of laughter, her head thrown back at a right angle. He takes that opportunity to admire her braless silvery satin mini dress ensemble, the way the fabric teases him with all the little nooks and crannies it reveals.

"Happy New Year!" she shrieks, scooting partially off him and onto the couch.

"It's not midnight yet," he scoffs playfully over the music, and downs the last of his White Russian.

She clicks her tongue and pretends to pout, which he thinks is hot to a shocking degree and all the business with the garlic and onions is almost forgiven until she stands and starts pulling him by the hand.

"Where are we going?" he says, hardly slurring at all.

"Dance with me!" She boogies to the music, her hips swaying a mere inches away from his face. It occurs to him that she's not very graceful at all. She's kind of awkward but sexy and he's never met anyone that could be both at the same time, so doesn't that make her something like extraordinary, if one were to stop to think about it?

He gives a heavy, pained sigh.

"I can't dance," Ian protests, and yanks away too hard. She just nods, a shy expression fleeting across her eyes. He watches as she slips back into the crowd, and all Ian can think to himself is, _you STUPID bastard._

"You STUPID bastard." It takes him a moment to realize that someone's actually bellowing this down at him instead of just having merely heard it in his head. He should probably be grateful for that.

"Holloway, you son of a bitch," Ian says with great affection, and pats the space next to him by way of invitation. "Happy fucking new year."

"Fuck off," Josh drawls, smirking, and drops like a stone onto the couch. He reeks of Long Island iced teas and cigarettes and offers Ian one out of his pack, which Ian waves away just as Josh shouts, "Boy, I'm starting to think you're gay or retarded or something."

He gapes at the older man. He's let Josh's obvious lack of breeding and decorum serve as his alibi for a lot of things; he knows he means well, anyway, but - "You're lucky I can't move." He wishes he could stop himself from smiling back, but he suspects that even when sober, Josh Holloway's grin is pretty fucking infectious.

"You know what I'm talkin' about, though. Right?" And Ian does his level best to absolutely _not_ wince when Josh jabs an elbow into his side.

"No idea."

It's Josh's turn to gape. "You're shitting me. You. _Her_!"

Ian waits until further explanation is forthcoming, and when there isn't one, he says, "Me and her _what_?" Ian laughs at Josh's drunkenly earnest expression, but then adds, "Man. It's complicated."

"Psh. No, it ain't, dumbass."

And he's really got nothing to say to that, especially because blood is suddenly pounding in his ears, drowning out Al Green and the chatter of a hundred familiar faces. He sees flashes of smooth, shiny silver weaving in and out of the crowd before him, blond waves here and there, and suddenly it hits him that he needs a resolution and this one's just as good as the next:

In 2005, he resolves to stop overthinking everything. He decides to internalize _carpe diem_ and throw any semblance of caution to the wind. It's the intellectually honest thing to do, really, the logical conclusion to reach from all the Nietzsche he has spent a half a lifetime stuffing into his head. Why, if it hadn't dawned on him just then to decide to do exactly that, he wasn't sure how he could ever even live with himself. It was _that_ critical.

So when the party cheers in the countdown from ten to one, he finds a reserve of adrenaline, clears his mind, and wriggles through the crowd until he finds her, back turned to him, champagne glass in hand and laughing at some key grip's amusing anecdote. On _two_ , he taps her on the shoulder in what he hopes is an assertive (but not overly so) manner. She whirls to face him, her expression shifting mid-turn from bright to soft as she bites her lip, smiling at him. And then it's _one_ and he thinks/hopes she knows that he absolutely has to kiss her – not just kiss her, but kiss her like _that_ , crushing and nice and shocking. The crowd around them hasn't stopped cheering, blowing party favors, tossing confetti by the time she kisses him back until they're both breathless.

When she pulls away, her arms are draped around his neck and he's inhaling jasmine and feeling happier and hornier than he's felt since he could remember. He's pretty sure by the tell-tale heat in his cheeks that he's flushed bright red, stupid Irishboy skin that can't keep secrets, but when he meets her eyes, they're shining and she can't stop smiling.

They stand there, arms wrapped around each other, still oblivious to the knowing smiles and politely turned away gazes of the other partygoers as the music starts back up again in a loud burst. Ian scrutinizes her face, and tells her, breath soft against her ear: "I think I'm, um. Crazy," and only her look of faint confusion prompts him to finish the sentence: "About you. I meant."

She registers that, and - "I kinda knew. Well... I hoped? But I didn't think you'd ever-"

"I didn't think I would, either."

She gives him a happy nod. "What was the inspiration?"

The instinct to ignore that question, and instead start dwelling on the ramifications, the reality of _them_ , what it could mean, how it could so easily get _complicated_ , the five billion ways in which it could all end in tears and/or tragedy - it's almost overpowering.

Then Ian remembers his resolution with sharp, sudden focus, silently shoves it all down, and looks her square in the eye, right before hugging her tightly to him.

"I kind of just decided to stop thinking altogether."

She laughs, harder than necessary, maybe, and when he smiles at her, she gives him a smile that is so terribly sweet and pure, it's all Ian can do from reaching for one of her spaghetti straps and sending it sliding down her bicep right there. He thinks his mouth might actually be watering at the thought, but that might just be all the booze. One can never tell for sure.

Instead, he lets his hand drop to their side, clasps her hand in his. "Beach?"

She nods, and soon they're shoving their way through the packs of party-goers, him leading her by the hand as she skips behind him.

This time, he's pretty sure he can get her to throw her bra into the goddamned _ocean_.


End file.
